Over The Horizon
by TopKat
Summary: [just getting a purgatory fic in before season 8 ruins my dreams; deancas, basically a PWP. "You think we'll get out of here?" Castiel frowns. "I'm not sure." He says truthfully; partly because Dean has never appreciated placation; partly because he's never been very good at it, either. Dean nods, lets his head drop back against the rough cave wall. "Think we'll see tomorrow?"


"You think we'll get out of here?"

It's a rare confession of uncertainty from Dean, who has been crashing through the undergrowth like a child having a tantrum since they arrived, the words on his lips mostly variations on 'fuck this shit. I'm getting back to my brother.' But now, sitting with one knee lifted, his other leg out in front of him, he turns to Castiel and looks oddly lost. Castiel frowns. "I'm not sure." He says truthfully; partly because Dean has never appreciated placation; partly because he's never been very good at it, either. Dean nods, lets his head drop back against the rough cave wall.

"Think we'll see tomorrow?"

Castiel smiles, though the question wasn't funny. "That, I believe we can manage."

Dean looks at him and nods in reply. "Yeah. Okay." And he smiles back, though to both of them, the gesture means little, here. The air is cold; Dean shifts in close, wary like an animal Castiel could easily spook. They slump against eachother, though; Castiel is only just now learning the benefits of Dean's terrible posture.

Dean drifts into sleep fairly quickly; Castiel keeps watch, eyes unendingly trained on the mouth of the cave, on the darkening space around them. Come morning, they will move again.

Xxx

Dean sits, bloodied and naked, by the side of the river, eyeing the water dubiously. He looks to Castiel for confirmation. "Probably full of leeches, right?"

Castiel peers at the water himself; he rolls his shoulders, a learned gesture. "I doubt it; leeches most likely go either to heaven or hell when they die."

Dean snorts, then realises Castiel isn't making a joke. "Wait, so, what – there's a leech heaven? A leech hell? There are good and evil leeches?"

"I assume so. I'm not privy to all the machinations of the Lord."

Dean grins, amused in his disbelief. "Well, shit. Does that mean there are leech angels? Or is it just a blanket, catch-all, multi-purpose angel thing?"

Castiel's face falls. "I've never thought about it."

Dean shrugs. "Weird." He places his palms flat on the ground, either side of his naked hips, and pushes, sliding slowly into the water with a hiss. "fuckin' shit, it's _cold."_

Castiel lowers himself to sit beside the river, hands folded in his lap. "What did you expect?"

Dean doesn't reply, except to glare. He wades around experimentally, the water only coming up to his waist, before he seems to gather courage, and submerges himself entirely in the river. There is a moment when Castiel feels vague panic; he doesn't know what is in the water, or how he will kill it if it tries to hurt Dean, or what he will do if it _succeeds – _but then Dean's head emerges from the murk, mud and blood, newly wet, sluicing off his face in brown and red streaks. He looks at Castiel and frowns, but with humor. "Hope those leeches know how lucky they are, not being in a place like this."

Castiel can't help it; he laughs gently, more a hum of amusement than anything else, but Dean catches his eye nonetheless, looking, again, pleasantly surprised. Dean moves his hands around in the water experimentally. "Not sure if I'm getting clean or not." He frowns at the water, its surface an impenetrable dark brown, then turns again to Castiel. "You sure you don't want to – I dunno, dip your coat in, or something? You're looking a little worse for wear, man. No offense."

Castiel looks down at himself. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"I think so."

Dean takes that as read, and nods, then dips down into the water again, and swims a little ways off, not too far – just far enough to feel water move against his skin, to cut a line across the surface with his body. Castiel watches, a fondness welling inside him that is all too familiar – and a protectiveness that is, too. He'll get them out, no matter what. He promises that, silently, now.

Xxx

"You alright?"

Castiel is standing by the mouth of that night's shelter – another cave, which Dean exasperatedly says is 'getting old', but which he admits is the best protection, there being only one entrance to guard. The angel turns to look at him as he ducks out of the cave, hands in the pockets of his worn, filthy jeans. "Of course." He says, automatically, and Dean looks a little upset.

"Before we got here, you weren't – you weren't exactly all there."

"No. No, I wasn't."

"Are you? Now, I mean? Are you…here?"

Castiel looks down at his own hands; flexes them in front of him, as he did when he first took Jimmy as a vessel, his first day on earth. "Mostly, I think." He says, and is nearly confident that it's true. "I feel more – ordered."

"I never thanked you for what you did." Dean says quietly, not looking at him, guilt etched into every syllable, and Castiel steps close, nudges him with a shoulder, something he has seen Sam do after minor rifts, to tell him he's being foolish, or that they both are. When Dean looks at him in surprise, he inclines his head slightly, embarrassed, though he can't put his finger on exactly why.

"It doesn't matter, does it? We're here. And what I did-" he doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to say _I will never be forgiven, _doesn't want to say _I don't deserve your guilt, _has to force the words through his teeth, looks at the bare dirt on the ground. "I would do it again, Dean, no matter the consequence."

"You're an idiot." Dean says, and it's true, but they both relax a little, shoulders no longer stiff. Dean reaches between them and takes Castiel's arm in his hand, squeezes briefly, then lets go. He says nothing else; turns around, goes back into the cave, brushing Castiel's shoulder with his as he moves past.

Xxx

They're resting for the second day in the same cave; Dean was attacked the day before, and though their wounds are minor, the sensation still leaves them weary and unbalanced, in desperate need of sleep. On this second night they're side by side, not talking. The day had been difficult, a mess of monsters and a lack of food and general annoyance on both their parts; Dean wants to get home, wants it so badly Castiel can almost feel it coming from him in waves. Castiel doesn't know what he wants, and the fact of it makes him clench and tremble with anger at himself. He has his knees pulled to his chest; Dean is silently holding one of his arms, has it laid against his knee, and is sewing up a cut as best he can, though the lack of sleep is making his hands shake.

"What good is freedom, if you have no idea what you desire?" he wonders out loud, and Dean looks at him strangely.

"What brought that on?" he pauses in dressing the wound, nearly finished.

"Nothing. I'm just- frustrated."

Dean nods, then moves his free hand thoughtfully, looking at Castiel's arm, instead of his face. "That's frustrating, like – I get it, but there's a lot more to freedom than _desire, _Cas. You know that, right?"

"But how can I even experience my freedom if I don't know what I want?"

Dean shrugs, lifting Castiel's arm closer to his face, peering at the stitches in the cave's dim light. "I dunno, isn't just _having _the freedom enough? You never had it before, and now you're a free man. Angel. Whatever. That means something, right? More than just doing what you want – the important thing isn't doing it, it's knowing that you _can_. Right?"

Castiel frowns. "I just feel…directionless."

"Yeah, well." Dean chuckles, "Join the fucking club, Cas."

Castiel feels fondness surge inside him again, as it did more and more often these days, a small toehold of mercy in the endless terror and strangeness that Purgatory inflicts on them every day. It is a miracle that they are still together, still _friends, _after all he has done. He feels unworthy, grateful, lost, all at once. When he looks up from his arm, Dean is looking at him, too. "I don't mean to be depressing." He apologises, and Dean cracks a small, bitter grin.

"Goes with the territory. Don't worry about it."

There is a long, drawn out silence, in which Dean holds his arm, hands warm against his skin, and the two of them are silent, but it is not a bored silence, or a hurt silence, or a tired silence; it is a _waiting _silence, and he knows it well, having been here with Dean before, often, albeit a long time ago. Dean presses his lips tightly together.

"I'm glad you're here, Cas. I just want you to know. I'd be pretty fucked without you."

"Likewise." Castiel smiles at him, grateful again for the simple words, things Dean would never have said to him only a short time ago. Dean's fingers tighten on his arm and then he makes as if to move away, but Castiel – he realises even as he moves his own hand, places it over Dean's shoulder, stops him from drawing back – doesn't want him to. He has been waiting for a long, long time and he is, suddenly, unprepared to continue waiting. Dean is stilled by his hand, lets him draw close –doesn't look wary, or scared, or surprised, only patient. Expectant. Almost as if _he _has been waiting, too.

He tilts his head towards Castiel's as the angel pushes closer – he takes, carefully, the crook of Castiel's elbow in his hand, and his thumb traces slow circles on the soft, pale flesh there.

When Castiel is scant inches from him; when it is clear what his intention is, what he's about to do – he stops for a second and catches Dean's eyes instead of looking at his mouth. He reads them effortlessly; Dean's hesitance, the way he is confident, but terrified, too. He feels another surge of gratefulness, and another behind it, of _wanting, _so acute that he knows it instantly.

Castiel takes that mouth with his own; claims it, his nose touching Dean's face, their skin warm together – and moves his hand to rest over Dean's heart. The pulse there is steady, doesn't waver or pound, barely reacts, even, until Dean starts to respond to him – careful at first and then with more abandon, moving his hand to fist it in the thin cloth at Castiel's hip, pulling him fractionally closer – and then Dean's heart moves in earnest, thuds against his ribs, ribs Castiel marked himself, and he grunts softly. He pulls them apart.

"This is okay." He says, not a question, and Castiel nods. "_Cas_." He whispers then, brokenly, and pushes forward again, huffs breath and tightens his grip on Castiel's elbow and pushes his tongue into Castiel's mouth, sucks on his lower lip, misses his mouth entirely and kisses his jaw, instead, dropping his lips against it as he whispers the nickname again, like a prayer. There is noise outside that sounds like danger – it could be the rustle of trees in the wind, it could be an attacker, but Castiel is ready to fight at any moment; he is _always _ready, and Dean, too, he knows, could pull away and be fighting in seconds – there is just no need. The cave is quiet, but for Dean's huffing breaths, the sound of them kissing, a soft, surprised noise from Dean when Castiel pushes him back against the wall and moves in closer, insinuating a knee between Dean's legs, grasping at all the flesh he can reach. He touches Dean's calf, runs his hand up to press fingers behind his knee, runs it up further, still, to sit on his thigh, flat, fingers kneading but hand stilling, then; waiting. He draws away from Dean's mouth and presses his nose against the flesh behind one ear, inhaling the dirt of him, sweat and skin, not his usual gun-and-grease tang.

They're both different here, surviving rather than living, but Castiel doesn't mind it; this is still the body he built, still the body he raised from hell, still the man he has worshipped and loved, the man he claimed from the very first. Dean cups his jaw with a hand, a tender gesture, though his other hand is inside the waistband of Castiel's hospital scrubs, and he is using it to pull them flush against each other, so close now that Castiel's hand, between them, is no longer needed to feel Dean's heart beating; were it not for skin and clothes, it would be touching his own. He leans his head in the join between Dean's neck and shoulder, mouthing softly at the skin there, slowly though Dean is growing more insistent, hand fully inside his pants, kneading the flesh of his upper thigh. Castiel drops kisses down his chest; earns himself another, soft, reverent "_Cas." _When he pays special attention to the tattoo with his lips and tongue, sucking gently on the skin before moving down to where Dean's jeans are strained, and once there, pressing his forehead gently against it for a moment, breathing, before lifting his head again and taking his hands from Dean's flesh – his leg, his side – to undo the button and pull down the fly. Dean's breath hitches as he does, his grip tightening on the meat of Castiel's thigh. Castiel tugs his underwear, and the jeans, down; gets them as far his knees because he has no need to pull them any further, and wonders for a moment at how strange and hideously perfect human beings are, how odd flesh is under a hand, how wet Dean is now, untouched, wanting, his hips twitching when Castiel places one hand on each, holding him still.

He takes it in his mouth; a little only, sucking gently on the head before moving further down, marvelling again at how undone Dean becomes with this small action; how he keens and makes a noise, low in his throat, as his hands scrabble at Castiel's hair. He is not insistent; does not tug, does not pull, though Castiel knows he wants to, and would let him, if he so desired. He tongues briefly at the slit, works his way lower, sucks his way down, slowly, until he hears Dean mutter, for the umpteenth time, "_Cas. _Fuck, _Cas." _And Dean clenches a hand in his hair and pulls him, a suggestion and not a command (he doubts Dean is _capable _of making demands of him, especially at this moment) – and Castiel slides off him slowly, letting go and drawing up again, face once again level with Dean's, hands still at his hips.

Dean is sweating, pupils blown, lips parted, and he leans forward to kiss Castiel again, mouth hungry, his hand shaking at the base of Castiel's neck. He mutters, "Both.", as if that's all he can manage, and then clears his throat, correcting himself. "Both of us. You, too. This isn't-" he says nothing else, but Castiel knows what he means. This isn't _worship, _and it isn't a gift, or a favour. It's not a way to say sorry, it's – it's something else, told in the way Dean's hand is careful on his face, the way he waits for a nod before he tugs Castiel's pants and underwear down, too, and pulls him as close as possible again, Castiel's breath hitching uncontrollably when his naked flesh meets Dean's. It's wet, impossibly so, the both of them, with sweat and spit and come and who even knows what else. With his knees either side of one of Dean's thighs Castiel, a thumb tracing the line of each of Dean's hipbones, kisses Dean again and then thrusts shallowly against him through the mess, a jolt shooting through him each time he slides against him, forehead pressed to Dean, eyes open, locked. He begins slow and measured but it is more difficult to stay in control each time; if he had wondered at Dean coming undone he is even more surprised by himself, the way adrenaline is pouring through him, at how his movement, with Dean rising to meet him, gets more inaccurate and less measured with each sound that is pulled from Dean's mouth.

He tips over the edge when Dean comes without warning, the space between them suddenly wet, slick, Dean's shirt sliding up and down his chest, through it, each time Castiel moves. Dean breathes his name once as it happens – tips his head back against the wall, shakes at he rides it out, still breathing heavily, still twitching against him – then lifts his head slowly to look at him again and says, quietly, "C'mon, Cas.", not impatiently but with a _smile_ on his mouth that Castiel has never seen him wear before. Castiel fucks harder against him, faster, juddering through the mess until he, too, is crying out softly, careful even now not to make too much noise, for fear of alerting some creature or other – and he is riding on something he's never dreamed of feeling before, Dean's flesh beneath him, both of them drenched in sweat and filth, Castiel pulling up his pants quickly and then, with a sigh, leaning his head on Dean's shoulder, moving his hands to spread his palms flat against the wall either side of him, breathing hard.

"I-" he starts, but Dean laughs gently and Castiel feels it against his face when Dean's shoulders move.

"Shut up, Cas." He says, voice thick and tired. "Just – just be quiet, okay? It's okay." Dean yawns but pushes Castiel's face up, again, with two fingers on the base of his jaw, and kisses him, again, just briefly before dropping his head back against the wall. "_Shit, _Cas_._" Dean whispers reverently, eyes on Castiel's before he closes them, slowly, and is overwhelmed by sleep.

Castiel sits, for a moment. He pulls back, resting his backside on Dean's thigh, and watches Dean's eyes move underneath the lids as he dreams, and feels no regret, no trepidation. He should have known this would happen eventually, after all they've been through; but he's glad that he didn't. It was better as a surprise.

He pulls himself wearily to his feet, leaving Dean to curl against the wall in sleep, searching for warmth. Once standing, Castiel tugs the trenchcoat from his shoulders and lays it over Dean, though he knows he'll get teased for it, come morning. The sun has just set, in this part of purgatory; Castiel walks to the mouth of the cave to watch it happen, arms wrapped around himself, thinking not of this ugly place but _knowing, _inside him, that they'll get out. That there will be a way.

Xxx

"You think Sam will bring food when he gets us?"

Walking under the trees, Castiel lifts his head to look at Dean. He smiles, bemused. "Unlikely."

"You're right. Even if he did, he'd probably bring us some fruit juice, or something, the bastard." he shudders visibly. Dean has been strangely light; not _positive, _per se (it's a hard thing to be _positive _when everything around them is out for their blood), but not so worried, not so self destructive. He is himself – he complains, he squabbles with Castiel over who is right, he makes reckless decisions and thinks constantly of his brother – but he is slightly less hurried, less retiring, with Castiel. His touch is surer, his gaze more confident, his hands, when he touches Castiel's shoulder, or arm, are firm and without unnecessary haste.

They argue and bicker, they find their differences; they do not talk of what happened before Castiel was mad, or of the Leviathan, or of what went so twisted and wrong, between them; but they have found something here, some common ground, and Castiel is not happy to be here; far from it; but he thinks perhaps they've reached an understanding, and that maybe, just maybe, he is beginning to figure out what freedom is; what he wants; what he can hope for.


End file.
